


Five times Harry Hereford died at the king's hands (and one time he died at someone else's)

by ICryYouMercy (TrafalgarsLaw)



Category: Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: Alternate History, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Sex and death, historically appropriately aged Hotspur, liberties taken with history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:46:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4652817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrafalgarsLaw/pseuds/ICryYouMercy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sometimes getting it right takes several tries</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five times Harry Hereford died at the king's hands (and one time he died at someone else's)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gehayi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gehayi/gifts).



> based on the most recent Globe production as regards costumes (and I blame them for the initial idea, too...)
> 
> thanks to Nimblr for betaing, and a shout-out to Sellar and Yeatman for proving that inspiration can come from the strangest places

_Richard II was only a boy at his accession: one day, however, suspecting that he was now twenty-one, he asked his uncle and, on learning that he was, mounted the throne himself and tried first being a Good King and then being a Bad King, without enjoying either very much: then, being told that he was unbalanced, he got off the throne again in despair, exclaiming gloomily: "For God's sake let me sit on the ground and tell bad stories about cabbages and things." Whereupon his cousin Lancaster (spelt Bolingbroke) quickly mounted the throne and said he was Henry IV, Part I._

_Richard was thus abdicated and was led to the Tower and subsequently to Pontefract Castle where he died of mysterious circumstances, probably a surfeit of Pumfreys (spelt Pontefracts).  (Sellar & Yeatman, p. 41-42)_

That is what happened. But history has a bad habit of repeating herself until she gets it right. In the meantime, this happened as well.

***

Henry had always loved his kingly cousin. He might not always have liked him, might not always have agreed with him, but he had always loved him, as well he could given Richard’s impatience and oftentimes mercurial moods. He loved his cousin. And that really was where all of his problems started.

Richard had been crowned too young to get the sort of education and experience that made a good ruler. And he'd been handled so carefully, so softly, as though he'd break at the lightest touch. He'd never learned, not the way Henry had; and now Henry had received intelligence of treason, of murder and assassination. Intelligence of Richard himself ordering the Duke of Gloucester killed.

Richard's kingly grace may well smooth over many a transgression, but not such a one as this. Kingship was bestowed and kept by God's will, and his alone. Even a king should never meddle with such powers. He should know that a position stabilised by murder would fall at the slightest trouble. But Richard had never been taught, not in any meaningful way. No one had ever sat him down and told him those rules. They had bent themselves to his will, trying to encourage a fledgling king, and now he was grown, they had a helpless boy on their hands.

Henry had watched and waited, had hoped for his cousin to learn through wars and rebellions what he hadn't had the chance to learn at his father's side. Richard instead had surrounded himself with minions and distractions, diverting and entertaining, willing to uphold his every illusion and fantasy for reality.

But now the Duke of Gloucester was dead and his blood on Richard's hands, and Henry could see his England fall apart in the untrained hands of one who should be a man as close to a god as can be, and turned out to be a mere mortal instead.

Henry didn’t exactly plan anything. Had he done so, he might have realised that teaching the king a lesson was an idea bound to cause disaster. He might also have realised that teaching the king a lesson should probably be done by someone both older and more patient than Harry of Hereford.

Instead, he challenged the assassin to a duel, in front of his king no less. Instead, he went for the most direct and violent approach he could think of. Blood had been spilt unjustly, and Henry couldn't think to wash it clean by any other act than justly spilling blood in full sight of nobility and king.

It was almost painfully simple at first. He begged an audience with the king, and asked to make his accusation and request and subsequent challenge in front of all the court. He prepared, carefully and neatly, the list of all that Mowbray was guilty of, while with equal care avoiding any mention of what the king might be guilty of. He kept quiet and waited to be summoned again to present his case.

The summons  came on an otherwise ordinary day, and for the briefest of moments, Henry thought that maybe, just maybe, he would be granted luck enough to get through this with both justice and truth, as much as England could handle at this point.

He hadn't accounted for Mowbray. He should have done, he admitted to himself. He should have consulted with his father, with his uncles, maybe even with the king himself. He should have kept quiet and patient. He should have left justice in the dark, and merely aimed for judgement instead. He should have caused to be done to Mowbray as Mowbray had done to the Duke of Gloucester. For as ruthlessly despotic as Richard could be, he was innocent enough still that the sheer promise of the sight of spilt blood would make him reconsider more readily than became a king.

It was too late for any of that now. Mowbray was shouting and screaming defiance at Henry, was calling him all he could think of, in hopes of preventing having any insult or injury applied to himself, and was, for aught that Henry could tell, in the right. Mowbray had done as his king had asked, and there was no justice higher or law stronger than the king’s own word. And Henry had stood and challenged it, in front of the entire court.

He knew, distantly, that he should ask for forgiveness, should beg and plead and hope for mercy that would never be granted. He should stop while he still had a head on his shoulders and lands to his name. Mowbray had been right, he thought. But Mowbray had been right for today, and, with some luck, not entirely wrong for tomorrow. Henry planned to be right for years to come. And to do so, he would need a king prepared to think before he acted, a king who was willing to approach a problem as something to be solved, and not something to be hidden and ignored. And Richard, for all his faults, would have to be that king, one way or another, sooner or later, should he want to remain both king and alive.  


So Harry Hereford awaited judgement, and told himself it had been for the best, and it had been worth it, even if he would be paying with his life for his hasty and badly-considered approach.

***

_Among a number of other utterly unmemorable lords put to death for treason was the rather forgettable Henry Bolingbroke, who is now only remembered for his passion for gardening and dislike of caterpillars._

_Richard II continued uncertain whether to be a Good King or a Bad King, and on his death left England without_ _any king of either quality._

***

Saint Lambert's Day dawned bright and warm, and Henry's armour felt tight and constricting even in the early morning's cool. He did not envy Mowbray his black and red doublet, even though his own white was near impossible to wear as clean and neat as respect and heraldry required. The king's white robe had no influence of any sort on this feeling, he insisted to himself.

For a queen, Mowbray as her champion should have worn her white. For a king, for Henry's king, no such formality was asked. Yet there was a strange sort of comfort in wearing the king's colours, however inadvertently. It felt like forgiveness. It felt like Henry had not only avoided the king's immediate and swift judgement, but also his resentment and revenge. It felt like maybe Henry was not the only one who could see his England falling apart anymore.

Against convention and tradition, he was not made to hear Mowbray's accusations. So he did what he did best and pushed, for a little more ground, for any advantage he could get. He asked to kiss the king's hand. It was a favour he wasn't due, but he was wearing white just as the king did, and he might just succeed. And it would, if nothing else, anger Mowbray. Henry might wish for a fair fight to prove right what was right, but saving his England required him to win, and win with at least some ease. Honour was all well and good, but it couldn't be the most he aspired to in those circumstances.

Richard's hand was cool and dry, Henry noticed. And it was Richard's hand, not the king's. A king should not have hands like that, frail and lifeless. Henry still kissed it, with as much reverence he could muster. It would not do to question the king at this instant. There would be time later should Henry succeed. Should he fail, well, it would not matter then.

He hadn't expected the embrace, or Richard's lips so close to his ear, or the whispered, "What would you have I had done?"

There was no answer Henry could give, and no right one even could he have thought of one. It was what he expected, in a way. The king had to be impartial and distanced. But Richard could see what Henry was trying, and having him uncertain while Mowbray was merely angry would easily tip the scales in Mowbray's favour again.

He dismissed the question for the tease it was, stepped back, took refuge in boasting, and turned to his father, asking forgiveness, permission and an undeserved blessing all in one word.

The lance he was handed felt heavy in his grasp, the weight a reassurance without equal. The ritual of duel was soothing even in how unfamiliar it was to be a challenger. Henry had always liked ritual, had found solace and quiet in the strict and simple rules. And this was no different, names and titles called out in the damp morning air, trumpets shrill and harsh.  


Another blast of trumpets broke the still air. Henry raised his lance and watched Mowbray do the same. The king stepped between them, and the world held its breath.

The king's declaration that there would be no fight today was not much of a surprise, if Henry was entirely honest with himself. No one stood to win from such a duel, and in the short term at least, the king could but lose. And he was too inexperienced and had been doing this alone for too long to realise that in the long term, Henry would win for him.

Henry could see that clear enough himself and he decided to do what was good instead of what was right. He met Mowbray's eyes again, as much mockery as he possibly could in his smile. It was no challenge to goad a good man, and if Henry was any judge of people, Mowbray was amongst the best of men.

There was the matter of the king's command, but if Henry was willing to defy the king for what he thought the greater good, then Mowbray would be doubly so if only Henry found the right leverage.

Kneeling next to him, facing the king, it turned out to be almost painfully easy. Six years' banishment was a price gladly paid for what stability he could give Richard's reign. So he took his oath, all the while looking at Mowbray, all the while smiling. Mowbray, next to him, fixed his eyes on the king, spoke solemnly and sadly.

His challenge fell from his lips without thought. They may well be banished, and the king may well have forbidden them to speak to each other but there was yet time enough for this. Mowbray's voice was shaking just the slightest bit on his refusal and Henry knew he had won. All it took was a whispered "oh?" for Mowbray's hands to find their way to Henry's throat. Henry struggled for long enough to appear to be losing, and then grabbed the nearest weapon to his hand, the edges of his vision darkening. It had been an act as much as anything could be, but he had waited too long, and the panic rising did not allow for subtlety or finesse.

Blood ran warm over his hands as he gasped for air. Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk had done what any good man would do. Henry had done what any bad man would do, and there might be peace yet.

Harry Hereford remained on his knees in front of his king and once again awaited judgement.

***

_The execution of Henry Bolingbroke, while considered a Bad Thing by his father, proved ultimately to be a Good Thing for England, as it led his aggrieved father to eradicate all mentions and instances of caterpillars_ _and declare his grandson Harry Monmouth to be a Good King._

_Richard II, upon hearing this, decided that being unable to match such a challenge, it would be advisable to abdicate and die of a surfeit of living, which he promptly did._

***

Henry wondered if Richard had shown him mercy by lifting his banishment or simply a more devious punishment. He had known his father to be dying. He had not realised that there was a difference between knowing and seeing. He could have made peace in leaving, saying his goodbyes without looking back, secure in the inevitable delay of any message, comforted with the knowledge that there was nothing he could possibly do.

He felt guilty sitting at his father's bedside, shirking his duties and training. He felt guilty surrounded by papers and guiltier still during training, leaving his father to face death alone and uncared for.

He eventually compromised by taking what papers he could to be read and signed in his father's room, the sickly silence no more disturbing than the constant stream of concerns and complaints about taxes and trespassers, witnesses of a country torn between an uncertain king and an ever-increasing number of opponents.

It wasn't peaceful, but it was quiet enough that Henry started to relax into it, found the time for training when his father slept and the courage to ask his father's advice while he still could.

He was having, on his father's advice, a quiet word with the Duke of York, father of Edward, Duke of Aumerle. There were means and ways to influence a king, to make happen what one thought was best to happen, and Edward, young as he was, seemed to have chosen the simplest of them. Henry would not judge him for what company and pleasure he found, but his political advice seemed to be concerned with little more than fashion and hunting, and denial of anything else.

If the king could not be taught directly, then maybe his minions could be. It was anything but an elegant solution, and far from a guaranteed success, but Henry had had time to think, and his father had had the time to advise caution and diplomacy, and for all Henry would have loved to cut down any and all frivolous and decadent distractions surrounding the king, it would not lead to success.

The king's and his father's summons reached him at the same time, the core of both messages the same. Henry had been watching at his father's sickbed for too long as that the messages would be much of a surprise, but it seemed the pain of loss was no less sharp for being expected.

The king's message was soothing, if only for the burning hot rage it ran through Henry's blood. The matter had been settled with Mowbray's death. It had been agreed by court and king that though no longer under the terms of duel, Mowbray being the aggressor, his blood being spilt had proven what right Henry could call his own. But now, on the death of Henry's father, the king was claiming Henry's inheritance for his own, was demanding Henry acknowledge the claim to be just. In a message of barely three sentences, Henry had been forced to name himself traitor, with any option offered the wrong one.

He could acquiesce to the king's demand, and in accepting the punishment as just confirm the crime. He could deny the king, and in doing so declaring himself above the king's judgement.

He was still holding the note when he finally faced his king. He clung to it listening to what could have been an apology coming from a kinder man and was nothing but an excuse falling from Richard's lips. He clung to it when the question was repeated.

Finally, Harry Hereford held out his open palms in supplication, and knelt in the proudest kind of submission he could find in himself and told the king no. Judgement would come as it had always done, and in this moment, he hurt too much to care what it would be.

***

_Henry Bolingbroke died of a surfeit of execution after his father died of a surfeit of gaunt, as he had called Richard II a Bad King for trying to steal his inheritance in answer to the Irish Question*._

_Richard continued to be a Bad King without anyone daring to point this out for several years longer._

_*It would later turn out that Richard II had the wrong answer, or possibly the right answer to another question._

***

That Richard's plan for the Irish wars would be to rush off on the first ship to Ireland and trust to succeed by the grace of god and kingship did not come as much of a surprise. That he would request Henry accompany him did.

"You seem to disapprove of the attention I pay to our cousin Edward's wishes and advice, it seems," Richard told him, his arm heavy across Henry's shoulders. He was standing too close, his body too warm, and Henry had not been touched in far too long. What comfort there was in his touch was easily dispelled under the invasive nature of it. "And as I am not willing to dismiss him as you suggest I should, I felt paying more attention to you might alleviate your envy."

"My liege," Henry began before realising that there really was nothing more to add. The suggestion was perfectly ridiculous, and even Richard must have been well aware of it. It was not attention Henry wanted, or at least not the kind Edward received. The only thing Henry wanted was for Richard to treat his kingship with the same care he treated his dalliances and diversions.

"I have also been advised, rather more sternly, that unskilled in the hunt as you are, you might yet have valuable insights in the arts of war," Richard added, leaning closer, and his breath and voice settled uncomfortably damp and warm on Henry's ear. Being so approached by any other man, and Henry would have shrugged and forced him to move. Doing so to the king, and especially a king like Richard, would certainly prove a punishable offence, however. And Henry had committed too many of those already.

"My liege," he repeated, trying to keep his voice as even as possible. His more formal education might have covered the purely mechanical aspects of warfare in greater depth and detail than Richard's erratic and at times absent experience could, but in spite of all affectations and fancy, Richard had a far easier hand in tactics and strategy than Henry himself. What Henry could do for Richard, any reliable marshal should be able to do.

But of course, Richard would not have thought to appoint one. Or maybe he had, and had simply done so by virtue of picking the favourite of his minions at the time. Henry forced himself to stop that particular train of thought before it reached the question of how a favourite favourite might have been elected.

"Our cousin Aumerle did suggest I bestow on you the title of marshal, leaving you to duty and me to the overindulgence you so cautiously objected to," Richard said, leaned down just close enough to press a kiss to Henry's neck, and released him from his grasp.

An hour later, Henry found himself in a small cabin with a smaller desk, as many different papers as Richard could find spread out in front of him. It had to be deliberate, the disorganised and incomplete nature of the lists. No one could rule a kingdom, much less lead a war, on intelligence that fragmented.

But he had been given an order, and he might yet be able to turn this war in England's favour, if not Richard's. Until he found the recruitment lists and accounts and realised how Richard had financed this war, and why Henry was here with him. It would be difficult to raise a rebellion while caught up leading a war.

He had by now learnt the virtue of patience and diplomacy. And travelling with Richard and Edward had soon taught him that some things that happened behind closed doors should stay behind closed doors. Henry waited for Richard to approach him to raise the issue.

"You squander my inheritance on a war you have no hope of winning?", Henry asked when the opportunity presented itself.

Richard gave him a look that spoke of consequences with surprising eloquence. "You doubt my skills as a general?"

"Yes."

"And you would deny your king what is rightfully his, as he is using it to win a war you urged should be fought?"

"Yes," Henry repeated. There might have been a moment for diplomacy and a carefully constructed lie, but he was not here as Richard's subject or cousin. He was here as a king’s field marshal, and he had a duty to fulfill. A duty that would go unheeded couched in a polite evasion. "You seem more interested in directing attention from the taxes you raised towards this conflict that you should have handled long before. Your court is frivolous and given to play while your country falls apart, and in an underfinanced and unplanned campaign, you waste yet more taxes while not addressing your nobles' concerns. King you may be, but the rule lies not with you but with your favourites."

Richard looked at him with the slightest of smiles and Henry realised that once more, he had overplayed his hand.

The draft list still in his hands, Harry Hereford knelt to ask for judgement, knowing that forgiveness was no longer within his reach.

***

_Henry Bolingbroke's execution and burial was not memorable and thus no further mention will be made of it._

_Neither was the remaining time of Richard II's reign_

***

The return to England was anything but glorious. In spite of Henry's best efforts, scarce resources and regiments would only stretch so far and in the end even the momentary truce they had achieved felt close to a miracle.

Richard seemed curiously unaffected by this, spending most of their return journey in the company of Aumerle, listening to excuses and mockery, having his failure explained away as though none of it had ever happened. Henry had promised himself not to judge his cousins for such indulgences. War was lonely and cold at the best of times, and this had been among the worst of them. If there had been comfort to be found in someone else's arms, Henry would have taken it without the least hesitation.

So he kept his quiet and practiced patience. There would be time enough to chastise Richard once they had recovered and calmed down. Henry had considerable leeway in his position both as the king's cousin and as his field marshal. He would be heard, if not necessarily heeded.

When Richard turned to Aumerle again when they'd barely set their feet on dry ground, Henry decided that whatever place virtue might hold in this world, this was not it. Rage overruled deference, and he laid an arm around Richard's shoulder, pulled him close, and tried for the voice Richard used to make his conversational subjects uncomfortable. "There are certain concerns about the outcome of this war I wish to address with you, my liege."

He felt Richard hesitate for a moment, apparently torn between outrage at having his kingly person handled so casually and grudging respect for Henry's daring.

"Speak, and we shall listen," he eventually said, making no move to dismiss his entourage.

Henry took a breath and tried his luck. "I would have your attendants leave us."

Richard smiled and with a regal wave dismissed even Aumerle before giving Henry his full and undivided attention.

"I recall warning you of the futility and futility of this war," Henry began. Blunt honesty had served him well, and Richard had failed to punish him for it every time it had mattered. Diplomacy would be a waste of time and effort now.

"I recall a truce and a successful if temporary solution have been achieved," Richard replied.

"At considerable cost to your men and your country."

The look Richard turned on him was pitying, and his voice when he spoke next curiously soft. "I have lost men before. I will lose men after this. Your concern becomes you as a simple duke, but as a king, I must consider my realm before I consider simple soldiers. They died well, and they died under my orders. There is no need for your doubt."

Henry tore his arm away from Richard's shoulder, took a step back. "They are still dead," he spat, voice brittle. The condescension was nothing new, but no less unwanted for its familiarity.

Richard's smile did not change, and yet pity found a way to be replaced by mockery. "They are dead in the king's name. You begrudge them this grace?"

"I live in the king's name. What more grace could there be?", Henry said, voice rough with rage and something he did not dare name.

He kissed Richard then, savage and reckless. There was no pleasure in it, and no affection neither. He tasted blood, his own or Richard's, he didn't care. He had lived this long, and dying here was not an option he would willingly consider even in the face of Richard's disaffection.

Richard's hand was on his jaw, pushing him back the slightest bit, and the touch turned almost gentle for a moment before Richard pulled back, his smile unchanged. "Are you sure you should not prefer death?", he asked.

Once again, Harry Hereford found himself kneeling for his king. Judgement was swift, as was death.

***

_Henry Bolingbroke died under mysterious circumstances for offending public sensibilities. Richard II died under identical circumstances for endangering royal succession. His utterly unmemorable reign thus ended, Henry Monmouth became king and was chaperoned until he reached the age of twenty-one. Dying soon after, he was declared a Good King for simple_ _lack of opportunity to be a Bad King._

***

When their return to London was followed almost immediately by another collection of taxes, at no more than a simple word from Aumerle. Henry was surprised at the jealousy he felt. It would take barely a look or a smile from Aumerle to have the king change his mind. But all Henry's supplication had done was delay the inevitable for another day.

Henry felt the disquiet like the heat before a thunderstorm. The tension had been in the air since the king had been crowned, and while it had lessened over the years, it had never disappeared entirely.

And so here they were, back from another war, no fame or glory to speak of, tax collectors sent out while the king played with his favourites and -- on occasion his queen -- with no regard for the concerns his lords brought to him.

Something would give, and it would happen soon. No quiet words and no supplications on Henry's side would be able to stop it unless he found the right ears to whisper those words into.

He had considered Richard’s immediate family, but York had no influence to restrain Aumerle's disastrous counsel, or at least no influence strong enough to match the king; and both Aumerle himself and the queen were under the king's spell, or entranced by their own deliberate ignorance. The king's minions, noblemen though they were, had likely not been chosen for their skills in statecraft, if rumour could be believed. There were few strong enough to influence a king who wouldn't be influenced.

Amongst the few nobles Henry could think of with the power to do what needed doing where the warden of the marches, and they came with risks Henry had no chance of estimating. But there were no other options. He was courting danger no matter what, and in this he would prefer a fire to a thunderstorm at least.

The wardens had no obligation towards Henry. All he could offer was the passing acquaintance of the younger and perhaps a small hand in helping him to his position by having killed the former warden of the eastern marches, but Henry had learnt more at the king's side than he would willingly admit, and there was little enough he had left to lose. What he had, he needed to make count.

He approached the Earl of Northumberland, the Warden of the Western Marches, first. Harry Hotspur, warden of the eastern marches, after all, should be easily swayed by his father's word and Henry's status. The warden was by far old enough to be Henry's father, and he awaited Henry's speech with patience and a smile that spoke of recognition, if not of the details then at least of the situation.

Henry had intended to be cautious, to sound where the warden's loyalties lay before revealing his own, but found himself unable to lie to a man so like and unlike his own father. "He has taken my inheritance," he blurted, then added, "He is tearing this country apart, and doesn't appear to notice."

The warden smiled. "And what would you ask of me?"

Henry had prepared for this moment with some care and now found that his words were lost. "He will not listen to my advice, but you have influence and power. He might find you a worthier advisor."

"Not only are you asking me to commit treason, you do so while lying to me?" the warden asked after a long moment's thought.

"Lying?"

The warden smiled, and gestured to a man Henry had so far assumed to be no more than a guard. "You claim to be looking for someone with power enough to match the king. And yet, you came to me without even considering one far more powerful. What do you call this if not lying?"

The man met Henry's eyes with a smile and the slightest bow and Henry realised that he had been led into making the mistake of underestimating Harry Hotspur and he would pay for it before long.

"I had hoped that someone of an age to be the king's father might fare easier in this task," he said, avoiding an outright lie only by the narrowest of margins.

The warden nodded. "You have some potential, I see," he conceded. Then he turned to his son.

Hotspur was still smiling, his expression not unlike the one the king had worn when making Henry kneel to him. And yet behind that almost rakish grin was a softness Henry had not expected to ever see on another man's face.

He moved closer as though approaching a skittish horse. Henry forced himself to meet his eyes and remain standing upright. He might be asking for assistance, but if the worst came to worse, he would be king. It would not do to bend in supplication to a simple earl, powerful though he may be.

They stood unmoving for long enough that Henry's knees were trembling, the tension slowly failing to match Hotspur's unwitting command.

"He will do," Hotspur eventually said, and Henry drew a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "It will be well."

There were talks. The warden requested an audience with the king. Hotspur mustered an army under the guise of defending the borders. It was as swift as it was careful, and the king's refusal of counsel had come as no surprise. There was neither justice nor mercy, only the quiet sigh of a country no longer torn under a reckless king.

All the while, Henry was at Hotspur's side, matched in skill and name, and secure in knowing that no matter the illegitimacy of his kingship, there was none daring to contend with the will of the warden of the marches. Henry was close enough in blood and uncontested in strength, for as long as he could keep the loyalty he needed.

And the warden's loyalty was conditional on Hotspur's loyalty. Loyalty that came, as all things did, at a price.

Harry Hereford had knelt willingly for the king. For Harry Hotspur, he did so gladly and joyfully. In return, he found for the first time he could recall, death without need for judgement.

***

History finally got it right. Or as close to right as she ever did.

***

Sellar, W.C., and R.J. Yeatman. 1066 And All That. York: Methuen, 2009. Print.

**Author's Note:**

> So, since Shakespeare has a habit of playing fast and lose with history, I am of course making a few assumptions and taking some liberties.  
> Keeping Hotspur's age historically accurate, for once. For another, I am writing this under the assumption that at the relevant time, Harry Hotspur was warden of the eastern marches, and he and his father joint wardens of the western marches, which did happen sometime during Richard II's reign, so it's not entirely wrong.  
> On another note, wikipedia has informed me that before Hotspur was made warden of the eastern marches, the job belonged to Mowbray, which is quite helpful when it comes to explaining why he and his father supported Bolingbroke.


End file.
